


Chef

by jennamacaroni



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 03:54:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6314311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jennamacaroni/pseuds/jennamacaroni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which santana is one of the most talked about up-and-coming chefs in nyc and brittany ends up eating at her restaurant</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one

Rachel Berry hasn’t shut up about having dinner at the Village’s latest new restaurant since she somehow landed a table there for the soft opening a few weeks ago. Apparently being famous does have it’s perks, even if it makes Rachel even more insufferable most of the time. Ever since that night, Rachel has peppered Brittany and their other best friend, Kurt, with texts, emails, tweets, and mentions of the place. She even covertly slipped the New York Times’s review into both of their mailboxes the day it was published. Brittany hasn’t gotten around to reading it yet.

To be honest, Brittany doesn’t really get the whole trendy and upscale dining scene. The food costs a fortune (never mind the drinks), getting a table is next to impossible, and there’s so many damn restaurants in New York, how could anyone possibly keep up? The next best thing today may be shuttered tomorrow, and she’s got a pretty solid list of her tried and true spots that don’t require fancy clothes or a Visa Black Card.

But the thing about Rachel Berry is she always gets what she wants in the end, so that Friday night after work, Brittany applies the final touches to her smoky eye make up, steps into her highest heels and struts out to the unmarked black SUV idling out front of her apartment building for the past five minutes.

She waves at Kurt and his boyfriend, Blaine, in the third row seat as she climbs in next to Rachel, kissing her quickly on both cheeks in greeting while Rachel yammers on about the latest industry drama.

“Nice to see you too, sweets.” But Rachel can’t hear over the volume of her own squawking.

Brittany zones out for the majority of the ride, which she tends to do anytime Rachel is talking about work, and she groans when they finally pull up to the curb and a horde of paparazzi move to raise their camera lenses and start snapping in their direction. Rachel loves to be seen, and it must not be a secret they’re eating here tonight. At least she looks hot and Rachel’s footing the bill.

“What kind of name is _‘Kokoro’_ anyways?”

“It’s Japanese for ‘heart’, didn’t you read _any_ of the articles I sent? Honestly, Brittany, you think I send you these things to give you even more reasons to ignore me?”

“Seems kind of corny,” Brittany mumbles, leading the group through the heavy oak front door and into the restaurant.

The interior is bustling with movement and quite loud with a packed house, but immediately Brittany can tell it’s unlike most restaurants Rachel drags her to. She has a weird feeling. Like she’s been here before, but she knows she hasn’t. The space is warm and homey, well-worn wood floors meeting exposed brick and three distinct rooms lit by soft yellow Edison bulbs shining from gorgeous spiderwebbed light sculptures. It’s all clean lines, exposed beams and extremely well composed without looking expensive or pretentious. Brittany gets distracted by the patchwork shelving that separates the bar and lounge area from the back dining room. Each cubby holds a different treasure, from a miniature bonsai tree to various pieces of pottery, multiple stacks of cookbooks and in one far corner, and a framed photograph of a small girl wrapped in a too-large apron standing on a stepladder to peek over a stove top. The photo quality is grainy with age and Brittany wonders if the little girl is the chef Rachel’s been going on and on about.

The hostess leads them past the bar, through the main dining area, alongside a long and polished sushi bar that overlooks the open kitchen and into a more secluded back room hidden by large paned panels of frosted glass that slide back and forth along the floor.

“You can leave it open,” Rachel calls to the hostess as she begins to slide the panel shut to give them some privacy. “We’d like to be able to see the kitchen.”

“Certainly, Miss Berry,” the woman says with a smile, before disappearing from view.

Before Brittany has a chance to open the menu, a handsome and tall dark-skinned waiter with a few days’ beard and an easy smile appears at the table, handing each of them a steaming hot towel. “For your hands,” he nods, his chestnut eyes meeting Brittany’s and his smile widening. He’s definitely cute. She checks quickly for a wedding ring but the tell-tale finger is bare. Maybe this dinner won’t be so bad after all.

“You’re at the chef’s table tonight ladies and gentlemen. Our executive chef is Santana Lopez and she’s created a special menu catered just for you all this evening. There will be ten courses, all shareable plates and meant to be eaten family-style, so we do encourage community dining amongst your table and that everyone try a bit of everything.” Brittany likes the idea of the dinner already, because she finds choosing what to order is always the most difficult. Mostly because she wants to try everything and her friends don’t like to share.

Rachel orders hot sake to start and they fall into idle conversation about Kurt and Blaine’s theater company and the latest show they’re working on. Brittany lets her eyes wander towards the kitchen, studying each of the kitchen staff one after the other. There’s a tall, lanky Asian guy bent intently over a plate at the sushi bar, a folded red bandana tied around his forehead as he forms small ovals of sticky rice in his palms, smudges them with a touch of wasabi and presses fresh pieces of fish intently into each one. She then spots a blonde woman, probably around Brittany’s age, who crosses briskly and confidently through the kitchen, pulling open the double doors of an oven and reaching inside to check on a dish cooking inside. Brittany loves restaurants with open kitchens. She loves the way the staff interacts with the ingredients and moves like a weirdly coordinated orchestra, the dishes moving from place to place, an ingredient added here, a sauce there, until they’re perfect and ready to serve. It weirdly reminds Brittany of a ballet, the dancers all in white.

The first dish arrives within minutes, the hot waiter placing a tiny ceramic bowl of shaved ice in front of her that is topped with the largest raw oyster Brittany has ever seen.

“Here we have our Wellfleet oyster, topped with a melon sorbet and sliced chilis.”

Brittany grabs the large shell hesitantly. Raw oysters have never been her favorite, too slimy and too… alive. But she figures she might as well be adventurous since Rachel has been going on about the food for weeks, so she tips her head back and upends the entire contents of the clam into her mouth.

The flavors explode on her tongue, salt from the brine of the oyster balanced perfectly with the crisp cool of the icy melon and a tiny punch of heat from the chile. The taste is so incredible and the combination so unlike anything she’s ever tasted before that she holds it on her tongue much longer than she normally would, letting the flavors meld and seep through her taste buds before finally swallowing.

“Oh my god,” she groans, wishing she had another in front of her immediately.

“I _told_ you!” Rachel caws, triumphant. “And this was only the first course, it gets so much better, you won’t even believe it.”

Brittany really hates when Rachel is right but that may be the best thing she’s ever tasted.

_____

Rachel points out Chef Santana Lopez in between the second and third courses and Brittany is _this_ close to aspirating on her latest gulp of sake.

“ _That’s_ her?” Brittany gapes, open mouthed, as she tracks the now-infamous Santana Lopez around the kitchen. Rachel has talked nonstop about this chef and restaurant for weeks, but somehow she neglected to mention that Santana Lopez is absolutely gorgeous. Like once-in-a-lifetime-should-be-immortalized-in-a-museum type of stunning beauty. She has a delectable caramel complexion, oh-so-kissable full pink lips, apple-rounded rosy cheeks and smoky dark eyes that Brittany urges to meet. Her long raven hair is pulled into a high messy bun, flyaway wisps framing her face as she talks animatedly with someone on her staff. The sleeves of her white chef coat are rolled up just past her elbows, revealing a full sleeve of inky black tattoos on her right forearm, the muscles tugging into cords as she gesticulates with her hands while she’s speaking.

Something deep inside Brittany burns.

“She’s so…”

“Hot?” Kurt suggests, jabbing an elbow into Brittany’s side and breaking her ogling stare.

“Shut up.” She can feel her face burning already. Burning along with the rest of her body.

“Well, you are practically undressing her with your eyes, B,” Blaine jokes, winking at her.

But Brittany can’t help but stare. She’s never wanted to look at something, or someone, more in her entire life. The room could burst into flames and she’d still be sitting at this table, watching Santana Lopez move around the kitchen.


	2. two

It’s not very often you get the opportunity to witness someone in their true element. When actions and movements are completely effortless. Santana Lopez is a natural at running a restaurant kitchen, her motions fluid and easy as breathing as she checks on plates, tasting ingredients every so often to ensure it’s what she’s conceptualized, critiquing as necessary. She touches every plate before it goes out onto the floor, making sure each is perfect. A symphony maestro bringing harmony to chaos.

Without warning and as if Santana could feel Brittany’s heavy stare, she looks up and they lock eyes, an entire restaurant bustling and buzzing in between them. She does a double-take, looking away awkwardly at the sudden eye contact, but then immediately back again as if they know each other, but they don’t.

Everything seems to slow down. Blood pulses under Brittany’s skin. She feels every heartbeat. She watches the way Santana’s brow crinkles, trying to place her but failing.

The pretty blonde chef breaks the spell by snapping fingers quickly in front of Santana’s face and pushing a spoonful of something or other under her nose. And on cue, the waiter arrives with the third course.

Brittany forces herself to look away.

Compared to the previous dish, the pieces of sushi look shockingly simple and bland on the plate in comparison, and Brittany tries not to seem disappointed.

“From left to right we have _masu_ , a Tasmanian ocean trout, _bafun uni_ , which is hokkaido sea urchin, and finally _ikura_ , or wild salmon roe. Please enjoy.”

She picks up the first piece with her fingers since she read online somewhere that’s how they do it in Japan, studying the pinkish flesh dusted in silver before popping it into her mouth. The fish practically melts in her mouth, a savory and creamy salty taste of the deep ocean combined with a slight sweetness from the perfectly cooked rice and finished by a perfect kick of wasabi to finish. Brittany can’t help her eyes rolling back into her head as she chews. She’s not sure what kind of sushi she’d been eating up until this moment, but it’s put to shame by this single bite.

“How?” She gapes awestruck around the table, but Rachel, Kurt and Blaine all seem to be having the same reaction, none of them wanting to finish chewing for fear of losing the flavor.

“Incredible,” Blaine comments, picking up another piece.

When Brittany looks back towards the kitchen, this time Chef Santana Lopez is the one staring. Her smirk says _you haven’t seen anything yet_.

Brittany takes a long drag from her water glass, feeling suddenly flushed with desire. Whether it’s for the food or the chef, she can’t quite figure out.

The next piece is the urchin, a strange orange color from the flesh of the spiny creature, draped carefully over the rice. When the sushi touches her tongue, the creamy and rich texture turns to liquid smoke in her mouth, almost like a savory sauce. She closes her eyes, trying to focus solely on her sense of taste, once again not wanting the flavor to stop. Chef Lopez certainly knows how to layer her dishes, with a parade of ingredients shining one after the other as the flavors meld and develop on the palate. Brittany’s never had an experience quite like it.

“I think this is actually what heaven feels like in food form,” says Kurt, before picking up the last piece, the salmon roe, and popping it into his mouth. Brittany is most hesitant about this one, because fish eggs seem like kind of a gross thing to think about eating. The pea-sized roe are much larger than she’s ever seen and their opaque reddish-orange color remind Brittany of the eggs that get eaten at the beginning of Finding Nemo.

“Come on, Britt,” Rachel prods, rolling her eyes as Brittany holds the piece in mid-air, caught in limbo between the plate and her mouth. When she glances back at the kitchen, Santana Lopez is looking at her again. She nods slightly, as if saying _you should eat that, it’s going to be worth it_.

And so Brittany does, a shiver coursing up and down her spine.

Each roe is a tiny explosion of tangy and briny liquid, bursting one after the other as she chews. She closes her eyes to focus her senses, eyes rolling back because god it’s incredible. Pop, pop, pop like fireworks in her mouth. How could something so simple pack so much concentrated flavor? The harmony of the bite is utter perfection: warm and soft rice soaking up the juice from the roe wrapped in earthy seaweed and accented by a hint of coarse chile salt.

Brittany feels eyes on her again, even when her own are closed. Santana Lopez smiles wide this time, showing a set of perfect teeth. She resonates confidence and pride in her work and Brittany finds it so so hot. She downs the rest of her sake and shakes her head in amazement, wondering what could possibly be coming next. She can barely sit still, her whole body buzzing, buzzing.

Another full bottle of sake appears in front of her and she looks up in surprise at the server, cocking an eyebrow at his sly smile.

“Compliments of the chef,” he bows, gesturing towards Santana.

_____

The fourth dish is an actual work of art. Brittany has never seen anything like it and her mouth falls open into an ‘o’ as she watches the plate settle in front of her. The large dish is a strange hybrid between a plate and bowl, with a shallow half sphere in the very middle filled with what look to be peas, flanked by a large flat ceramic edge smeared with an arc of gorgeous hunter green puree.

“Gorgeous!” Rachel exclaims, pulling out her phone to snap a picture.

“This may be the prettiest plate you see tonight, and that’s saying something. Here we have scallop prepared two ways: hard sear to caramelize and raw,” the waiter explains, pointing to various parts of the plate. “On top we have some watercress and red seaweed over raw snap peas in a pea broth. The dark green along the edge of the plate is a watercress puree. Please enjoy.”

Peas and seafood seem like a very odd combination, but if Brittany’s learned anything tonight, it’s not to doubt anything put in front of her, and once again she is blown away by the complexity of the dish, the flavors hitting her tongue one after the other then melding into perfect harmony. Every dish simply sings, and just when she can’t think the food can possibly get any better, _it does_. She practically elbows Rachel out of the way to snatch the last piece of scallop and finishes off the dish by dragging a finger through the painted edge and licking the sauce right off her fingertip.

_____

The sake continues to flow as the courses keep on arriving from the kitchen, perfectly timed to give the table enough time to settle and cleanse their palates. Rachel is definitely drunk now, Brittany can tell by the volume of her voice rising a whole decibel level. Brittany thinks she’s definitely drunk too, but not just from the alcohol. She has barely contributed to any conversation at the table, instead focusing all her attention on this mysterious and beautiful woman moving about the kitchen, a tour de force. After a time, her friends stop trying to engage her altogether.

_____

Santana has so much soul that it actually radiates from her. From across the room Brittany can feel a very distinct energy coursing from her and when her dark eyes meet Brittany’s, it’s like their souls literally crash together, over and over. Neither of them can go very long without looking at the other and Brittany thinks this should feel weirder, practically eye fucking each other from across the room, but she can’t stop.

The remaining dishes are just as beautiful and composed as the previous, each one a different tiny world contained on a plate. Buttery mackerel branded with dark triangular grill marks flanked by smoky charred oyster mushrooms and huckleberry, a shockingly pink bluefin tuna sashimi bathed in a tangy ponzu sauce that Brittany ends up lapping up with a spoon, sous vide pork belly that falls apart on her tongue accented with crisp Asian pear and flakes of coarse sea salt. Brittany doesn’t want the food to stop coming. She wants to try absolutely everything on the menu because she doesn’t want to miss a single flavor that Santana has teased out from her ingredients, or the way she combines them to harmonize like a favorite song.

When the last of the savory dishes is set to arrive, Chef Santana Lopez brings them out herself, toting two latched jars opaque with a thick smoke, one in each hand. She rounds the table smiling at Rachel and nodding a “good evening, Miss Berry,” her voice like toasted honey that makes the tiny hairs on the back of Brittany’s neck stand up.

Santana stops right alongside Brittany’s chair, close enough to touch. “And how is everything so far this evening?” an easy smile tugging at her full and pink lips, eyes sparkling.

Brittany’s senses are too overloaded to form coherent thoughts as she studies as much of Santana as she can see. She longs to taste the skin on the back of her neck, to kiss the spot behind the fold of her ear, to undo the buttons on her white chef coat one by one, to stare at the intricacies of her inky tattoo sleeve. She is drawn like a moth to a flame. The most beautiful flame there is, burning bright, so bright.

“Everything is absolutely mind-blowing,” gushes Kurt, clapping his hands together quickly in appreciation. “Genius, really.”

“That’s quite the compliment, thank you.” She chuckles and even her laughter sounds like a melody.

The rolled up sleeve of Santana’s coat brushes Brittany’s shoulder as Santana leans over the table alongside of her, placing the final dish before them. Brittany shivers at the contact. “This is one of my favorite dishes, I do hope you enjoy.” Brittany gulps, feeling Santana’s voice everywhere, her whole body coursing with electricity. “We have duck three ways: smoked breast, confit and finally duck crackling which is the crispy parts on top. It’s served with candied citrus, endive and finished with an applewood smoke in the oven. Try and get a bit of everything.” She finally unclasps the jars, stepping back as the smoke ebbs and flows across the table. Brittany takes a deep breath, because even the freaking smoke is the best she’s ever smelled, tangy and savory.

“Well, that smells like heaven,” Brittany exclaims, turning to find Santana smiling just over her shoulder, dimples pressed deep into her cheeks. She winks when the rest of the table digs in to eat, her fingertips ghosting the back of Brittany’s shoulders. It takes everything she has to resist standing right up and pressing Santana Lopez against the wall right then and there, her knuckles white against the edge of the chair . Instead she watches Santana move back towards the kitchen, hips swaying like she knows someone is watching.


	3. three

Brittany falls against her chair back, chewing the last bite of the duck and drops her chopsticks like she’s dropping a microphone. She closes her eyes to savor the last of the savory and citrusy flavors before finally swallowing and rubbing contentedly at her stomach.

“Rachel, don’t let this go to your head or anything, but this was the best god damn dinner you’ve ever dragged me to. And if you ever need someone to blab to, not that I’ll pay attention, but I volunteer every single damn time if it means we can come eat here.”

Rachel looks so smug and happy bobbing up and down in her chair that she may be in danger of toppling right off. She rummages drunkenly through a gold star-studded clutch and pulls out her phone, thrusting it under Brittany’s chin. “Can you repeat what you just said? I’m going to need that on record.”

Brittany rolls her eyes and chuckles while shoving her hand away.

“I feel like I’m in Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz,” remarks Kurt, still slack-jawed and awestruck. “Like every meal I’ve had my entire life has been in black and white and then _bam_ , one bite of this food and everything is in vibrant and screaming technicolor.”

“I’m afraid every meal we ever have again will pale in comparison,” adds Blaine, as all four of them turn in synchrony to stare into the kitchen.

“I think a lot will pale in comparison,” Brittany mutters as her gaze falls once again on Chef Santana Lopez who is closely inspecting a dish ready for service. Santana brushes a stark white napkin along the corner of the plate to wipe an errant sauce or fingerprint before nodding and grabbing the plate herself, bypassing the waitstaff at her beck and call her and brushing them off with a wave of her hand.

Brittany follows her path around the sushi bar and out onto the restaurant floor, her stomach swooping when Santana turns once again in their direction and her eyes immediately find Brittany. A wide and beautiful dimpled smile blooms across her face and Brittany’s breath hitches. She is so gorgeous.

Santana arrives at the table with the waiter who pours a wine the color of fresh honey into champagne flutes as she sets down the plate. Brittany watches Santana wring her hands together while she waits for him to make the rounds and wonders if those hands are soft or callused, smooth or rough. Are they scarred from years working in the kitchen? Brittany daydreams of what else they may be good at and she shivers.

“Just a little extra dish for you guys to try, on the house. It’s a bit outside the box compared to the other food we put out here at Kokoro, as it’s typically a very traditional French dish. Here I’ve kind of turned it on it’s head.” She laughs, light and honest, gesturing towards the center of the table.

“If you don’t feel moved by this dish,” the waiter adds, “there’s something seriously wrong with you.”

“Shut it, James,” Santana blushes, whacking him absently in the arm. “Aaaaanyyywaaays,” she says, dragging out each syllable while the apples of her cheeks flush with pink. “We have foie gras with blood orange, both supremes, the slices here, and in the sauce. It’s accented with a sprinkle of black lime, some sliced serranos and watercress.” She lifts the bottle of wine not at all delicately, her fist closed around the neck. “Here you have a glass of Sauternes, which is a sweet French wine from the Graves region of Bordeaux. It should pair nicely with the dish. _Bon appetite_ ,” she says, raising the bottle to them. Brittany swoons at how easily the French rolls from Santana’s tongue and forms on her lips.

Brittany reaches for the stem of the wine glass quickly and raises it before Santana can retreat back to the kitchen. “To the chef.” Butterflies bounce wildly in her gut as Santana studies her, smiling softly. “Thank you.” And the others quickly follow, lifting their glasses to Santana. Rachel starts blabbing about the notoriety Santana has been getting, but if Santana notices, she doesn’t show it, instead taking a tiny and adorable bow to hide a deeper blush and pressing her hands together in thanks. Brittany’s gaze falls to her perfect ass as she sidles away and licks her lips subconsciously at what it would feel like beneath her hands.

“Do I even want to know what foie gras is?” Blaine asks, interrupting Brittany’s leering by cutting into the seared foie with a spoon and dragging it through the deep burgundy sauce painted on the plate like splattered blood.

“No, sweetie, you don’t.” Kurt quips, before digging in. “Oh god, Britt, you have to try this, it’s. I can’t even _explain_ what is happening in my mouth right now,” he whines, eyes lolling up into his head.

After a taste of wine, sweet and nutty on her tongue, Brittany follows suit, scooping up a bit of every color and texture from the plate. As she’s come to learn and almost expect from Santana’s food, the bite pops with multiple waves of flavor. First the buttery and silky foie melts on her tongue, savory and rich, the tart punch from the lime, sweetness from the orange and last, a pop of heat from the serranos that has her entire tongue prickling, her taste buds singing.

The plate is cleaned in record time and consensus at the table is that Santana Lopez is a gastronomical genius.

_____

It’s Kurt who scrawls out Brittany’s name and number on the bottom of the extra receipt as Rachel pays the check. He tears it along the edge of the table and folds it up, then shoves it into her hand as she gets up from the table. His voice is a sharp whisper. “If you don’t give this to her, I _will_.”

Even then Brittany can barely look away.

And he’s right. Brittany needs to meet her properly. Talk to her.

A quick shove between the shoulderblades propels her forward into a shuffle and there’s no stopping now. Brittany feels the nerves build and billow with each step, but she shakes them off. Brittany Pierce does not get nervous. Brittany Pierce sees what she likes and takes it. A deep breath and one last step before she’s idling at the threshold of the kitchen, barely out of the way of the wait staff and hopes for Santana to turn.

“Can I help you?” A member of the waitstaff is suddenly at her elbow, but Brittany’s eyes only flicker to the woman for a moment before they find Santana again.

“I just wanted to thank the chef properly before we head out, if that’s okay.”

And before she has a moment to figure out what the hell she’s even going to say, Chef Santana Lopez is there before her, leaning one arm onto the bar, a wickedly delicious smirk pulling up a corner of her lips.

“So what was your favorite?”

_You_ , Brittany thinks. “I couldn’t possibly pick. Everything was,” and she pauses, licking her lips. Santana looks quickly down and up again, her smile tugging wider. Brittany feels like she is on fire, all synapses firing at once, the adrenaline coursing faster and faster through her veins. The urge to reach out and grab the chef’s hand is nearly overwhelming. She clenches it into a fist instead. “It was the most incredible meal of my life.” And she means it.

“Well, I’m glad you liked it.”

“I’ve never felt that way before,” Brittany admits, her voice hushed and barely audible over the ambient noise from the kitchen and dining room.

Santana steps in closer and Brittany’s breath catches. “How?”

Brittany takes a deep breath and stares, unblinking. “Moved.”

And with that the smile is gone from the chef’s face, replaced instead with something else. Wonder? Surprise? All of her lines soften and blur just like that. The easy confidence that was so prevalent the rest of the night is suddenly nowhere to be found. And that’s the first moment when Brittany sees the invisible side of Santana Lopez. The scared side, the person terrified of failure, the desire to prove herself so strong that it pushes everything else far under her surface. And it’s that moment when Brittany decides once and for all that she needs to get to know this girl, wants to peel back every layer one after the other to find out what’s beneath. This woman is special.

“I’m Brittany. Brittany Pierce.”

A handshake. A press of paper into a calloused and hardened palm. A feeling that makes the tiny hairs on the back of both their necks stand on end.

“Santana.” She’s shy, and Brittany finds it so endearing.

“I know.”

And they watch each other another moment longer before the blonde chef is at Santana’s elbow, whispering into her ear.

“I’m sorry, I have to-”

“Of course. I don’t mean to keep you. Award-winning restaurant to run, and all.” And there’s that blush again. Brittany memorizes the exact shade of pink-tinged skin and tucks it away into her memory. “Thank you again, Chef. I’ll see you,” Brittany whispers, almost like a promise. At least, she hopes it is.

As she leaves the restaurant to catch up with her friends, Brittany pauses at the door, taking one last look around and hoping it isn’t the last time she’ll see inside these walls.

_____

Somehow Brittany convinces Rachel it was her idea to have post-dinner drinks at the bar down the block and while her friends continue to drink themselves silly, gossiping over blaring pop music, Brittany sips slowly on a vodka martini and hopes Santana will call. Or text.

“She’ll call.” Kurt’s voice is right in her ear, his fingers finding the crook of Brittany’s elbow alongside her in the booth.

“I don’t know,” she worries, illuminating her phone again to check for any messages.

“Britt. Neither of you could take your eyes off each other the whole time we were there. Either she calls or she’s a complete idiot who doesn’t deserve you anyways. Even if she is-”

“A drop-dead gorgeous and incredibly talented and successful human being?”

“Exactly. But so are _you_. Which is why this is totally going to happen, trust me.”

But instead of replying, Brittany brushes him off, gulps the remnants of the martini and calls the waitress over for another.

_____

The text comes at 12:30 from an unknown number. _where are you?_

Immediately Brittany’s pulse starts to race, her body with shocked with a quick jolt of adrenaline. Her palms are clammy as she picks up the phone to respond.

_who is this?_

The response is nearly immediate.

_santana_

_hi_

_hi_

_i’m at the bar down the street_

_you mind ditching your friends?_

_not at all_

_want to come back to the restaurant?_

_definitely._


	4. four

Brittany swallows a thick lump in her throat and presses a shaking, clammy palm to the plane of her chest. Maybe the added pressure there will somehow keep her heart from beating clear out of the cage of her ribs. She hesitates at the front door of the restaurant. Should she go in? What if it’s locked? Is there a back door she should use instead? Just to be safe, she pulls out her cell phone and sends a quick text. _I’m here_.

There’s no answer, so instead she hovers awkwardly outside for a few drawn out minutes, feeling utterly stupid for coming at all. Just as she’s about to leave and abandon the whole idea, the deadbolt clicks and the door pushes open from the inside, smacking her hard right in the shoulder.

“Woah.” A voice calls, muffled from behind the door. “I’m so sorry,” the silken voice apologizes, clearer this time. Brittany notices the inky tattoos painted on the wrist bent around the thick oaken door and before she has a chance to steel herself, Santana’s face appears quickly in view, peering around the entrance and just inches from Brittany’s nose. Brittany sucks in a deep breath.

She shakes her head to clear it, feeling suddenly flush from her collar to the tips of her ears. “That was a dumb place to be standing.”

“I’m still sorry,” she says, holding open the door.

Brittany follows her inside the dim entryway, noting that Santana is now without her chef whites, clad only in a sweaty grey tank top tucked into black skinny jeans. She catches Brittany raking her up and down, a playful smirk painting her supple lips.

“Sorry about my clothes, I tend to get pretty gross during service.” Brittany watches the tendons and muscles in her neck tighten into cords as she shrugs her shoulder.

“I think you look great.”

“Not as good as you.”

How is it possible every time she looks at the chef, she loses all train of coherent thought? She blinks quickly a few times, trying to focus, but she can’t stop looking at Santana’s long and curled eyelashes or the way her dark eyeliner wings into laughter lines as she smiles, a dimple puckering her left cheek.

Brittany is suddenly very thirsty.

“Is that you?” Brittany asks, nodding to the photo she noticed earlier, the tiny girl in the too-big apron, her back to the camera as she stands tiptoe at the top of a step ladder to peer into a pot on a stove.

“A long time ago.” Santana smiles fondly at the framed picture.

The air between their bodies feels lit with electricity and Brittany swears she can feel the heat radiating from Santana’s body across the short distance between them. She swallows thickly and Santana’s gaze falls to her throat, watching the motion before flicking back up. Brittany feels like her skin is just smoldering embers, waiting for a match to drag across and set it ablaze.

“You want a drink?”

_____

Santana pulls a bottle of sake from behind the bar along with two short glasses, motioning for Brittany to follow. They weave through clean tables, chairs turned upside down over the tops for the night, and settle into two tall stools at the end of of the sushi bar.

“Where is everyone?”

“Gone. Out drinking themselves silly, I’d wager.” Santana pours from the half-full bottle, the liquid a milky greyish-blue as it fills the cup. Brittany drags a finger tip through the condensation immediately forming around the chilled liquid, rubbing the wetness away to nothing between her skin. “I told them to get lost, actually.” It’s a strange admission and Brittany looks up, puzzled.

“Why?”

Santana arches an eyebrow and smirks over the rim of her glass as she raises it to her lips. “I had to see about a girl.”

Brittany hums and mirrors her motion, hiding a pleased smile by taking a sip of her own. The fragrant and icy liquid flows down through her chest, cooling the heat that won’t stop burning there. “Good Will Hunting.”

“My favorite.” The seconds draw out in silence as they face one another, their knees nearly touching and eyes locked together, cool blue versus deep brown. “It’s not just a line, either. I hope you don’t think it’s just a line.”

“I don’t know what to think,” Brittany admits, swirling the liquid in her glass until it forms a cyclone at the center, the liquid nearly spilling out over the lip of the glass. A bit of the liquor peppers the skin of her knuckle, and she pulls it between her lips, not wasting a drop. She smirks when she catches Santana staring and heat climbs up her neck once more.

“Where are you from?” Santana’s voice is liquid and succulent, deep and full, and Brittany nearly doesn’t hear the question, focusing so much on the timbre and how her lips form around each word.

She takes another long drag from the glass, a little liquid courage before answering, “Los Angeles.”

“A long way from home, then.”

“Not anymore.”

Santana leans back and into the bar and studies her, the unpainted arm not occupied with the glass slung over the back of her chair. She looks so at ease and Brittany is envious, feeling quite the opposite smack in the middle of Santana’s territory. In Santana’s empty restaurant after closing, inches away from one of the most talked-about chefs in Manhattan. Definitely the most beautiful.

“No?”

“It’s been ten years now, since I’ve been here.” Brittany crosses one long leg over the other and suddenly the fabric of their knees are touching. Santana doesn’t move so neither does Brittany. Her skin prickles and warms at the point of contact.

“And you?” she asks, taking another drink.

“Here. Born and bred.”

“Always?”

“Who would ever want to leave this city? Greatest in the world,” she boasts, grinning wickedly. Typical New Yorker.

“If you say so.”

“Oh, you don’t agree? You’re still here, ten years later.”

Brittany shrugs, looking down into the glass once more. “The world is a very big place.”

Santana hums, throaty and deep. “It is.” Eventually Santana shifts, leaning over her elbows on the bar, suddenly much closer. The full length of their legs press together now and Brittany shivers. “And what do you do here in our fair city, Brittany Pierce?”

“I’m an artist. Like you.” That seems to take Santana by surprise, her eyebrows pulling up into her forehead. “But where you work with edible elements, I work with the non-edible kinds.”

“And what do you create?” Santana asks like she’s waiting on baited breath, enraptured by what Brittany will say next.

“Light fixtures, mostly. Sculpting and carving, some welding. My most well known pieces are these great trees,” she motions, bending her fingers into pretend roots, spidering out into the air between them. “Picture a giant oak tree, a trunk too thick to wrap your arms around, hanging upside down from the ceiling, and each twisted limb is dotted with light, illuminating everything below.”

“Sounds beautiful.”

“They kind of are,” Brittany admits, the tips of her ears burning with heat. She rolls her eyes at her own bashfulness.

“Do you have pictures?” Brittany nods, pulling out her phone and scrolling through. “Brittany Pierce,” Santana whispers. “Bringer of Light.”

The butterflies in Brittany’s gut turn to great eagles, soaring. Their fingers brush as Brittany hands over her phone and Santana lets out a low whistle, her eyes widening visibly as she stares. “Wow, that is-” she starts, looking up to catch Brittany’s eye. “It’s breathtaking, Brittany. Absolutely stunning.”

Brittany swallows down the words that threaten to escape between her lips. _So are you._

_____

They finish the bottle and cut into a second as the night moves unnoticed around them. They talk about anything and everything, learning about each other. About how Santana got her first job washing dishes in a relatively famous sushi restaurant in the Bronx simply because she would not stop showing up at the back door for a week straight, begging the chef to take her on. He refused over and over, claiming her scrawny 15-year old body was too small to lift the full bus buckets, the skin of her palms too delicate for the scalding dish water. She worked determinedly and tirelessly without pay for three days before he was finally convinced to take her on. “So stubborn, I was,” she laughs, eyes twinkling.

“Still am, I’m willing to bet.”

“Yes.”

Eventually Santana pulls her behind the counter and into the kitchen, naming stainless steel appliances and tools when Brittany points to each one she doesn’t recognize. Santana dips tasting spoons into a vibrant spectrum of colored sauces and lets Brittany sample countless singular elements she’s experimenting with for new dishes. There are tiny and tangy pickled vegetables that make her lips pucker, dehydrated fruits that plump on her tongue, microgreens growing in pots bathed artificial light that taste like the Earth. She leads Brittany into the walk-ins and lets her taste a bit of every type of ice cream that the pastry chef, Tina, had made earlier that day. Cuts tiny pieces of fish that melt on her tongue and only days ago were swimming in an ocean thousands of miles away.

“When I’m cooking,” Santana explains, her voice soft but emphatic, “it’s the only time in my life when I feel like I can completely trust what I’m doing.” She shrugs, looking around at the restaurant, the life she’s built within these walls.

Brittany is nearly beside herself as she watches Santana, alight with passion and pride. “You’re pretty incredible at it.”

“It’s not me, really, it’s the food.” And that makes Brittany laugh and roll her eyes. Of course the chef can’t take a compliment. “No really,” Santana emphasizes. “I pick the best and freshest ingredients I can find, then prepare them in such a way that the natural flavor shines.” She picks a round purple-white bulb from a cardboard box by the back walk-in and holds it up in the palm of one hand. “I don’t want to make a turnip taste like something other than a turnip. Turnips taste wonderful on their own, you know? I want to protect the integrity of the ingredients I cook with, and let them speak for themselves. I know that sounds weird-”

But Brittany thinks it actually makes perfect sense. “You’re beautiful.”

Whatever Santana is about to say next, the words die on her tongue, her mouth hanging half-open, eyes sparkling.

“I can just see you so clearly here. Who you are. What makes you tick. And it’s so,” Brittany pauses, looking up for a moment while she hunts for the just-right word. Santana’s pupils are nearly blown in the dark corner of the restaurant when Brittany whispers, “Enchanting.”

Brittany isn’t sure who kisses who first. It’s more like they both lean forward at the exact same time, Brittany’s hands finding the angle of Santana’s jaw on either side, and Santana knotting her fingers into the fabric at the back of Brittany’s shirt. The kiss is yearning and deep, right from the start, and it awakens something deep within Brittany that has been dormant for a long time. She’s worked up in seconds as Santana’s tongue is in her mouth, their noses pressed together between sharp gasps of thinning air.

“Come home with me,” Santana breathes, as Brittany pulls away only to lean right back in with a tilt of her head, her teeth clamping around Santana’s bottom lip and sucking. A moan slips from Santana’s throat, clipped at the end as if she tries to keep it from escaping as Brittany’s nails drag along the slope of Santana’s neck, raking over goosebumps.

“Let’s get a cab,” Brittany says between another heated kiss. She’s taller by quite a bit with heels on, so Brittany bends down and encircles Santana’s ribs, lifting her clear off the ground so they’re nose-to-nose. “Don’t clean that up,” Brittany orders, as she walks them past their half-empty glasses and back into the dining area. “I want your staff to know I was here.”

Santana lets out a low whine, and it vibrates against Brittany’s ribs, burrowing under her skin and smoldering there.

_____

They’re in the back of a cab and heading to Santana’s place.

Something about this feels dangerous to Brittany. Maybe it’s the jacket, the black leather worn thin and charcoal grey at the elbows, the material smooth and cold as Brittany presses her cheek to Santana’s shoulder. Maybe it’s the inky black tattoo that is visible just at the base of her neck, creeping up just barely past the collar of her ratty white t-shirt. Brittany stares at it before leaning forward and sucking hard at the exposed column of Santana’s neck, just above her jugular. The skin beneath pulses under her lips and tastes of salty from sweat. It turns a quick and angry pinkish red that will soon bloom in navy and purple. It brings Brittany a weird satisfaction to leave a mark. She wonders how many have had the privilege before her and how many more places she will brand for Santana to remember her by come morning.


End file.
